


The Silence

by goodloser



Series: Quit Stuntin [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Arguing, Canon-Typical Violence, Comedy, Drama, Enemies to Lovers, Fights, First Kiss, Fix-It, M/M, Manipulation, Matchmaking, Misunderstandings, Secret Crush, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 05:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26468206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodloser/pseuds/goodloser
Summary: Following their therapy appointment, Motormaster is distancing himself, Dead End is annoyed, Breakdown makes things worse, Drag Strip is a jerk, and Wildrider is improving, actually. Things can only devolve from there.
Relationships: Dead End/Motormaster (Transformers)
Series: Quit Stuntin [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1924132
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24





	1. it's a shame to be polite now

**Author's Note:**

> i didn't think i'd write a sequel but i can't stop thinking about it
> 
> stunticon 72 hour lockdown

Surprisingly, things did improve imperceptibly around the Stunticon stronghold. To the unassuming eye, they'd see the same old, same old of Motormaster's irritation towards his motley crew of the mentally ill. But his discipline had become a little less  _ inhumane  _ and thanks to everyone's efforts to not to be so horrible towards one another, general morale was up. They'd even been working more as a team during battles, Megatron mused behind wise optics. He should've done this much sooner. 

Unfortunately, half the reason the mood had been so good was because Motormaster was spending less and less time in the common room to begin with. Wildrider spied him hanging around Astrotrain, Blitzwing and Octane in the general common room. He'd been looking surly as he sipped an energon cube and listened to Blitzwing yell about swords or something. To be fair, they matched each other's size class better, but the Stunticons were meant to be a team. What gives? 

Unfortunately, Dead End knew exactly what gave. 

The first time was when Motormaster had come back late at night, nodded to the group, and headed to his quarters without a single word. The rest of them were either laid front-down in front of the TV, kicking their legs and watching  _ The Real Housewives of Sacramento,  _ or they were off to the side listening patiently. 

"I don't get it," Wildrider started. "Why doesn't Jane, the largest housewive, not simply eat the other four?" 

"It's housewife. Ie. singular." 

Drag Strip pushed his shoulder. "You dumbaft. Humans don't eat each other, they eat other Earth creatures, like wheats or dogs. Anyway, I can't be the only one who's noticed how weird the boss has been, right?" 

Breakdown looked testily over at Dead End. "I don't think that's a bad thing." 

"Huh, I thought it was ol' Lectern. That bad, huh, End?" 

"It wasn't — look, you wouldn't get it."  _ Had _ it been that bad? Well, yes. That'd been the worst beating (was it even that? It was half psychological torture) in quite a while. But the weirdness far outweighed the pain for him. 

Dead End could take pain any day, unfortunately. But the natural balance of things upset? That made him uncomfortable indeed. He would've thought the whole thing was a dream if he didn't wake up in the infirmary and Motormaster hadn't just gone to normal. 

"Don't tell me," Strip laughed. "You knocked him around? That's why he's so mardy?" 

"As if that would ever happen." Dead End would've rolled his optics if he had any. 

"You — you  _ fragged?  _ I guess it makes sense, he —" 

Dead End kicked him over and stomped off to his room. He spent the next few hours trying to engross himself in a magazine, failing, trying to recharge, failing, and then tossing and turning in what felt like a pointless sleep. His dreams were full of hushed whispers in dark tones. 

The second time was Wildrider, explaining again what he'd seen after chasing Rumble and Frenzy around the common room again. This time, he was sat on the sofa, with the rest of them gathered on the floor as if it was story time. 

He broke off a piece of an energon bar and stuffed it in his mouth. "This time, he was actually  _ smiling.  _ It was so weird. Not in a good way? It looked like he was talking about something funny, but not  _ Friday Night Live _ funny, more like  _ Starscream getting beat up on by Megatron  _ funny. Astrotrain was laughing too. I ain't never heard Astrotrain laugh except for that same reason like he just threw Blitzwing into the botball table." 

"Does this story have a point?" Dead End mumbled, and looked at an imaginary watch. "I need to hit the racks in… negative eight minutes." 

"He said your name!" 

Dead End almost jumped and Drag Strip barked in laughter. "Wh — what — you —" 

"I didn't really hear the rest of the convo though, since at that moment Frenzy jumped into the vent and I can't get in there so I had to zip outta there." 

This time Dead End  _ did _ jump up. He flew an accusatory finger dead-centre in the middle of Wildrider's optics.  _ "Wildrider.  _ Have you no manners? Hasn't anyone told you not to eavesdrop?" And then he was off to wander the corridors in the hopes of finding something to distract him. 

(He did, in the end, find Ravage, and they had a decent time talking to each other as they stalked the base together). 

The third and final time was over morning rations, in the canteen. Motormaster had chugged his and then left them to do Primus-knew-what. Wildrider was drinking his medicine — some chemical he couldn't name mixed into a cube. Once a day, in the morning, and hopefully he'd see results in a few more weeks. 

Breakdown leant over to whisper into Dead End's audials while Drag Strip was distracted trying to do that prank where you tap someone on the other pauldron so they look. His voice was fretful. "Dead End, I think you should… talk to him. People are starting to take notice and Lord Megatron will get upstart." 

Dead End was so bewildered he didn't even bother to correct him. What the hell was he supposed to say to him? How do you even  _ talk _ about that? He had the sudden urge to confess everything, but got the feeling Motormaster would rivet him to a pole for that. 

He began slowly, "After he… Okay, you need to act as if I never told you this, understand? After he  _ y'know  _ he, he — he hugged me." Okay, so not the  _ full _ truth, but close enough, right? 

Breakdown's eyes went wide. "What? Why?" 

"I don't know. I was quite out of it, and I offlined shortly after. But I guess, I don't know. How do you even begin to address something like that?" 

He stared at his cube while he tried to drum up ideas. His words were cautious. "I guess I… I'd want to know why but I already… Maybe you should go let him down gently? Maybe he's being weird because you haven't given him a response yet." 

Oh no. Let him down? Let him  _ down?  _ It wasn't like Dead End'd been asked out, and now that's what Breakdown was thinking! It wasn't anything like that, it was some weird pity party brought on by a good bollocking from a psychiatrist. 

He sighed. "I mean, I don't  _ want _ to, but I'd rather not Megatron beat us all to a pulp for falling apart again. At least Motormaster's not allowed to  _ kill _ us." 

* * *

After his duties, Dead End retired to the common room as usual — except this time there was a churning rotor in the base of his tanks that threatened to have him expel all over again. He'd never gone in and spoken to his boss for personal reasons, only to give reports or be reprimanded. 

He awaited his return impatiently and distractedly. This episode of  _ Home _ was oddly unamusing. 

The time came. When Motormaster returned, Breakdown traded a look with him that went unseen by the other two. Dead End gave it a few minutes, took a deep vent, and entered into the Devil's Den. 

The room was… messy. Unkempt, maybe even neglected. The previous times he'd been here, it was surprisingly neat considering Motormaster's personality, until you considered his respect for military order. Now, there were datapads, empty cubes, and other random articles strewn around the floor. The wall had a few dents in it, but whether they were new or not, he couldn't be sure. 

Motormaster was sat at his desk. His jaw was visibly clenched and there was a wayward fist left stiffly there. He didn't look up when Dead End entered, finding his lap much more palatable. 

"What." Flat. 

Dead End's plan was to act like he'd been too dizzy to hear anything, and then Motormaster would think it was fine and everything could go back to normal. He took another invent and tried to steel his resolve and keep a casual tone. "I never thanked you for taking me to the medbay. But, uh, sorry I was a brat and everything." 

Silence. 

Motormaster's EM field gave out a brief tone of hope, but then he restrained it back to his frame. He didn't move. "It was nothin'. I need my team in shape." 

Did it… work? Dead End wasn't sure if he should leave or hang around to find out. Maybe best to give him time. 

He turned to leave, but maybe something about his step was too quick or his posture was too stiff and Motormaster made him flinch. "Don't lie. I ain't no bolthead." 

Dead End had paused with one hand to activate the door's motion sensor. 

Oh Primus. He had done it now. Motormaster hated lies. 

"Get over here." 

With jarring, uneven steps, he made his way to stand at the end of the desk with a heavy head. Neither he nor Motormaster could bring themselves to look at each other. 

"Listen, I did hear it, even though I was lightheaded so perhaps I misheard so —" 

"Do you think I'm a bad leader?" 

"Wh— pardon?" 

"You heard me." Motormaster's voice came tired rather than angry, or any other emotion under the Sun. 

Dead End resisted the urge to play out a nervous tic or move at all so he just swallowed nothing into his inlet. "I don't… I don't know. You have good and bad traits, like all of us, and like all Decepticons." 

Pause. 

He decided to go on, even though the words were leaving him. He was easily the most charismatic of the bunch when he wanted to be (ie. not soothsaying the end times) but now he was struggling for what would help the situation. "You're strong, fearless, dedicated. You know the right calls to make. And you're… not the worst at reeling us in." 

Motormaster twitched. 

"But you're violent and have a terrible temper and think everyone should listen to you and — no one else hurts their team, okay? Look at the Constructicons! They're organised, and…" Dead End trailed off. Maybe comparisons weren't the best tool to use at this moment. "Okay…?" 

There was more silence, except for the magnified creak of Motormaster turning his head away from his lap, to stare at the corner of his room. 

This was weird. Dead End resisted the automated command to turn his vents up. He felt hot underneath his plating, but the room was so quiet you could hear a washer drop. It felt like trying to console a crying Breakdown, except if you messed up you'd find yourself floating away at the bottom of the ocean. He honestly couldn't tell if Motormaster was mulling his words over or if he'd straight up shut down. 

Finally, Motormaster turned to look at him. His right hand twitched as if he was about to make some gesture — and in any other situation, Dead End would assume it was a first, but that didn't seem right for this situation. Motormaster didn't seem angry. 

It was honestly troubling. 

"Okay. I. I trust you." 

Dead End twitched himself and nodded frantically. The air in his inlet had calcified and lodged itself in the middle of his pipe. 

Motormaster — he reached out to Dead End: to grab him? To hit him? He had no idea. His expression was unreadable, uncomfortable, and unnatural. It wasn't tired like he'd expect from his voice, but rather a mixture of blank, a frown, and something else totally unfathomable; his mouth set in a thin line. His optics dimmed. 

He stopped and retracted his arm as if Dead End was radiating heat like the Sun. He looked back at his desk. "Dismissed." 

Dead End tried not to hurry out like he'd just found the exit to the Bottom of the Pits. 

_ Shhnk.  _ The door closed behind him. 

He stared, arms splayed, like a petrorabbit in headlights. 

All three remaining Stunticons were staring at him with wide eyes. 

Breakdown began gingerly, "What… happened?" 

Okay, Dead End. You can do this. Just act perfectly natural and this will all smooth over. 

He shrugged. "Whatever." 

"Whatever?" Wildrider asked, incredulous. "Like  _ what _ ever or, what _ ever!"  _

"That really and truly is not a question." 

Drag Strip jumped up and flashed over to him, balled fists waving. "So didja do it?" 

"... Excuse me?" 

"Did you kiss him! Or —" 

Dead End pulled some datapad (he realised far too late with a pang it was his favourite mystery anthology) and threw it at Breakdown's head. Breakdown yelped and ducked. It pinged off a stack of tools they kept in the corner and they fell over with a clatter. "And what's it to you? What's the point of even telling you? What is the  _ point _ of  _ any _ of this." 

"Come on," Drag Strip shrugged. "Things'll work out, okay?" 

Dead End punched him so hard he fell over and left. Not to his room, no, he couldn't handle being around anyone right now. He took the lift up to the airfield to dangle his legs over the edge and grumble to himself. 

There was a silhouette already there. He cursed out loud. 

Thundercracker turned. "Hey." And then, "What's got  _ you  _ in a tizzy?" 

"It's those Primus-damned, good-for-nothing, slag-eating, toe-stepping —  _ aargh!"  _ Dead End turned back around and slammed his fist into the lift door and it actually managed to crumple his knuckles as much as it could under his forcefield. 

"Hmm." Even Thundercracker's usually calm, cool voice was leaking him off. "Wanna talk about it?" 

Any other day. Any other day it'd be an  _ of course not!  _ because Dead End was a private person and Stunticon business was no one's business, but he stormed over away and flung his legs over the edge of the airfield. Far below them swilled the now-dark waters of the ocean. 

How much was he willing to tell Thundercracker? The mech wasn't a gossip, but it still felt too personal and intimate to give him the  _ whole _ story — it's not like they were best friends, after all. "So a  _ certain  _ mech has been sulking for weeks so  _ I _ volunteer to speak to him because  _ I  _ carry this useless team as much as Drag Strip  _ loves _ to disappear and I  _ baby _ him and when I'm finished I discover Breakdown has been telling everyone he had a crush on me and that's why he was acting so weird so instead I was talking to him about  _ that _ instead of — other matters — and. Drag Strip tries to cheer  _ me _ up. As if he rejected  _ me _ or whatever was going through his junkyard processor. I'm." He gave an exaggerated sigh and threw his hands up. 

Thundercracker gave him a shrewd once-over. "This is the most emotional I have ever seen you." 

"Yeah, well, sometimes the lacklustre of living gets to even those wise to it," Dead End replied sarcastically. 

"I take it therapy didn't go so well. Starscream said the same thing." 

"Starscream and I are two intellectuals surrounded by buffoons." He didn't really mean that, even if there was a grain of truth to it. 

"Maybe you should bring this whole thing up at your next group session? Or private session. I don't really know how it all works 'n' all." 

_ Lucky, talented, sane Thundercracker,  _ Dead End thought bitterly. "What would I even say? What's the point. 'Hello, Lectern. This week, I, once again, hate my team.'" He put his head in his hands. "I wish I hadn't been created." 

"Overreaction, buddy." Thundercracker put his hand on Dead End's shoulder as an attempt at a comforting gesture. No dice. "Things won't be like this forever." 

"Yes they will. We were born defective. We're all terrible people." Dead End's voice had turned embarrassingly bitter and at that moment he hated everything about the world he lived in. 

"So… this is all just some big misunderstanding, right?" 

"Yeah, it —" He stopped. There was a flicker of warmth pushed over to him in the gestalt bond by Breakdown. He reached further. Wildrider was pretty much the same as ever; unconcern mixed with as much chaos as a tornado. Drag Strip was half confused and half amused at the apparent teasing. Stupid, awful slagger. Motormaster's end was… muted embarrassment he was apparently trying incredibly hard to reign in. 

"Got a ping?" 

He shook his head. "It's the bond." 

"Oh." Thundercracker looked away from him now, out at the opening stars. "What's that like, anyway?" 

"Is it not like how trines feel?" 

"I guess. Hmm." 

They fell into a silence; whether it was comfortable or not was up for debate. 

"So it was Motormaster, right?" 

At the mere mention of his name Dead End's field let out a scowl and he turned away. "It's all his fault, you understand? If he hadn't been such a, a, a  _ Megatron,  _ none of this would have ever happened. We wouldn't have had to go to therapy, and we wouldn't be so miserable in the first place, and I could get on with amounting to nothing worthwhile." 

"Starscream might be saying the same thing," Thundercracker mumbled. The look on his face told a completely different story; his optics were faraway. 

It was funny in a cosmic sort of way. Their supposedly tough-as-nails leader was nothing more than a cringing hand-wringer; no better than the rest of them, but with his own superiority complex. 

"Want me to talk to him?" Thundercracker said, suddenly and loudly. "Or Drag Strip or anyone." 

"What? No. I can fight my own battles." 

Thundercracker nodded, but again with that distant look in his eyes. 

Had Dead End got him all wrong? Was Thundercracker  _ not _ the most normal member of his trine? 

* * *

"Drag Strip…" 

"Huh?" As if nothing had happened, Drag Strip was absent-mindedly feeling over his dull new dent while he gawped at his mindless television. "Man, y'know, that guy throws a mean punch when he wants to." 

Breakdown shook him gently. "Drag Strip. He's  _ really _ angry. That was rude of you." 

"Downer,  _ you _ ' _ re _ the one who told us his little secret." 

Breakdown balked. "I — okay, that was, not right of me, but I got worried about what was happening and Wildrider wouldn't leave me alone, so I…" 

And of course, Wildrider couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. 

“I really don’t get what the big deal is. End’s getting laid, so what?” Drag Strip had now finished poking his new injury and had moved onto picking energon scraps out of his teeth using his pinky.

“It doesn’t matter if he’s g…  _ interfacing _ or not, it’s none of our business! And now he’s upset and it’s our fault.”

All throughout this conversation Dead End’s side of the bond had been thrumming out deep waves of angst and humiliation and frustration. Breakdown had to force himself not to shudder at the mere feel of it on his own empathy, like an inky tar threatening to suffocate him.

Wildrider rolled over, onto Breakdown’s lap, and looked up at him. Breakdown plaintively ignored him. “I gotta admit Breaky, I don’t get the problem neither.”

“The problem is that we probably messed it up for both of them or, or Dead End got turned down but he didn’t want anyone to know, or —” and now Breakdown’s fretting turned on “-- Primus, what if Motormaster  _ hates _ him and that’s why he was ignoring him and I convinced Dead End to go make a fool of himself, or what if Dead End hates Motormaster and I—”

Drag Strip finally turned his attention away from the TV. “Now hold up. Motormaster likes Dead End. Dude, we  _ know _ this. I’m pretty sure End hates him, I mean who doesn’t, but that doesn’t mean they can’t have a love-hate thing going on. What, you think the boss is gonna pine after him forever?  _ Motormaster?” _

“I got it.”  _ Paff. _ Wildrider smacked a fist into his open palm. “Let’s just get them together!”

“Get who together.”

Now it was time for all three of them to panic as they turned around to find Motormaster frowning in the doorway. “You lot ain’t messing around with Nacelle again are you?”

“What—”

Before Wildrider could say anymore, Breakdown did something  _ very _ uncharacteristic and tackled him to the ground. He shoved his face in to muffle it and laughed nervously. Motormaster raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing! Er, sir!”

Thankfully, Drag Strip caught on quicklike. He whispered to Breakdown  _ very _ inconspicuously, “But Nacelle…”

Motormaster plopped himself into the sofa with a thud. “Seriously. Don’t. You know how that guy is. I know Screamer hates him, but if he complains to Thundercracker again, it’s on you.”

“Yes sir!” Breakdown nodded his head frantically.

“Wait… Where did Dead End go?”

“He, uh, went for a walk, I think?”

“Mm. What’s on TV?”

_ “Top Switch.  _ See, I hate these hackneys, sure they’re sturdy but where’s the  _ speed, _ I—” Before Drag Strip could continue his tirade, Breakdown slapped his hand over his mouth and hauled him and Wildrider to their feet.

“Sorry, Boss. I just remembered we have, we need to go… hide in the closet? Okaybye.”

He yanked the pair into his quarters and shut the door behind him. 

Motormaster sighed and wiped his face. “What am I gonna do with those three?”

Drag Strip, from where he lay sprawled on top of Wildrider and Breakdown, said, “Sheesh. That was  _ the _ worst excuse I ever heard, and I once heard Skywarp say he couldn’t come into training because he was ‘being exhumed.”

“I panicked!” Breakdown flailed and whacked Wildrider square in the face. “I didn’t know what to do!”

“So let’s start planning,” Wildrider said. He was awfully nonchalant considering there were two entire mechs flattening him down. “What do they both have in common?”

“Utter. Killjoys.”

“Let’s do that thing. Yanno, where they have to sleep in the same bed?”

Breakdown squirmed. “That sounds really uncomfortable and inappropriate, and how? We sleep in the same base.”

“Huddling for warmth?”

“What, we’re throwing them off the side of the ship?”

“Vampire!Dead End and Werewolf!Motormaster.”

“That one’s plainly not real life…” Breakdown sighed and got up, pushing Drag Strip over in the process (who yelled at him for it). He brushed the dust off him. “Why are we even doing this.”

Wildrider twisted around so, once again, he was looking up at Breakdown from a worm’s eye view. “It’s  _ romance,  _ Breaky. This is the only way they’ll both live happily forever after.”

“Happy? Either of them?” Drag Strip snorted once he got up. “They’d probably team up and make us absolutely miserable for the rest of our lives.”

“And isn’t that what we really want?”

He planted a foot on Wildrider’s face to an  _ oof.  _

Breakdown moved to sit on his bed, a troubled look crossing his face — clearly deep in thought. “Maybe… we’re going about this the wrong way. What kind of person does Dead End like?”

There was a beat as all three of them looked at each other.

Drag Strip leant back on his haunches and drawled, “Whoever the most boring, unlikeable person in existence is.”

The three of them traded looks again.

In unison, they chanted, “Onslaught!”

* * *

Holding out a measuring stick, Breakdown tapped his foot and whined, “Come  _ on, _ they’re all the rage, Boss! Don’t you want to look your best?”

Not soon after, they’d returned to the common room to see Motormaster still on his seat. He was leisurely leant back with his optics on the TV in a look of extreme concentration, as if he tried hard enough he could will the characters on the show to move in whatever ways they wanted. Not soon after, Dead End had stalked back from wherever-he-was and departed to his room without a word. It was long enough to distract Motormaster with a furrowed brow.

“I  _ ain’t _ wearing a mask and visor. Did you lot slag off Dead End again?”

“He’s always been like that,” Drag Strip said quickly, waving a hand. “Okay, but listen to this, Chief:  _ dual. High-calibres. _ Forget the sword, swords are for nuts and Blitzwing and that’s pretty much the same thing anyways. Giant guns, on the other hand…”

Motormaster pointed a finger of danger at him. “Say that one more time and I’m gonna show you how nuts swords  _ really _ are.”

“Boss! Boss!” Wildrider jumped onto the sofa next to him, and Motormaster slapped him on pure reflex. “Ouch. Hey, have you ever thought of going back to school? You can learn some military stuff and all! Megsy would love that stuff.”

_ “Lord _ Megatron’s plans are good enough for me,” Motormaster simply growled. He gestured back to the TV. “Leave me alone, I’m watchin’ this movie.”

“You know…” and Breakdown could’ve condensed he was feeling so nervous as he smoothed his hands over Motormaster’s arm, “I think you’d look really nice in blue? Really, um, handsome?”

Motormaster jerked his arm away and growled, “Breakdown, I am  _ not _ attracted to you. What are you lot up to? You ain’t settin’ me up with Nacelle are you? Quit it.”

Drag Strip opened up a private channel.  _ [Great. Now what do we do?] _

_ [Maybe… This sort of thing can only happen naturally after all? And not be forced.] _

_ [Sob… Motorend…] _

_ [Don’t  _ sob _ over comms. And don't give their relationship a name!]  _

* * *

Thankfully, at least in Dead End’s opinion, the group had separate duties today. He was assigned inventory; Wildrider, monitors; Breakdown, equipment inspections; Drag Strip, guard duty; Motormaster, unloading supplies in a lower deck. Ironically, their positions had reversed over the past week. Motormaster had become his usual (or rather, therapy improved self), whereas Dead End was completely silent and self-isolating whenever he could. It was a change that worried Breakdown to no end, but it wasn’t as if a simple apology would be able to make it up to him. Maybe all they needed was time.

Dead End, though, was still too distracted to properly focus on his work. He fixed each screw with a glare as he sorted through the mixed boxes of supplies and made notes on a datapad. He wasn’t quite fuming anymore, but he  _ was _ still annoyed and disappointed and ashamed of what the others were thinking of him. He could understand Drag Strip and Wildrider, sure — those two never thought about others before speaking — but  _ Breakdown?  _ Other people were all he ever thought about! Was Dead End just not that important to him? It didn’t help those three were sneaking off around together and leaving him out of things. He wouldn’t have said yes anyway, but would it  _ hurt _ to invite him to something?

He cursed again and threw a battery down into the pile with a noisy set of clangs.

_ ALARM: Appointment with Lectern in one hour. _

Great, just  _ fantastic.  _ He had to deal with Inspector Calls on top of all this, and like  _ slag _ he was gonna talk this out with him, even though he knew truly Lectern would prod and pry until he got the answers he wanted. And group therapy again? No. No way. For not the first time that week, he wished he was someone else.

When his internal alarm pinged him again, he headed to his common room with a growing anger. On the way, he shoved Thrust into a wall, tripped Rumble, and pushed Flatline out of a lift so he fell onto that floor with all his little instruments landing next to him in  _ patter patters _ that did nothing to soothe his mood. When he got to his base, the  _ shhk _ of the door disappearing into the ceiling was practically a screech to his audials.

The rest of the group were already here, milling around. Breakdown, Wildrider and Drag Strip were together, which only furthered soured his mood.

“You made us late.” Motormaster thrusted an accusatory finger at him.

“So?” Dead End sounded as acidic as he felt. “I’m not going.”

“... Yeah you are. Lord Megatron’s orders, dummy.”

He scoffed, “Dummy? Come on. No need to hold back,  _ Motormaster.” _

“What are you talking about? I’m doing what everyone here wants!”

“Why don’t you just do what  _ you _ want?” Dead End threw his arms out and tilted his head. “Come on. Hit me. You know you want to.”

“Dead End…” Breakdown whimpered, and stepped forward.

“Stay  _ back _ Breakdown. This whole thing is your fault anyway.”

Breakdown recoiled as if he’d just touched a hot stove. Motormaster looked in between the pair. “What the hell is going on here?”

“What? You can’t tell?” Dead End’s voice was steadily rising in volume to the point Vortex, who was down the corridor, poked his head out of his base door to see what all the commotion was. “Such a bad leader after all?”

Motormaster didn’t move. His jaw dropped open.

“Sorry,  _ my _ mistake. I forgot I had to parent you so you’d forget all about it and we could go back to being a damned team again until the Three Stooges over here had to go and ruin that.”

He murmured, “Stop.”

“Or what? You’re going to say  _ I hate myself?” _

Nothing anyone said could have been louder than the silence in that room.

It must’ve only been a few kliks, but the time dragged.

Motormaster lunged forward and made a grab for him. With more speed than anyone might expect for such a dreary guy, Dead End dropped into a one-hand-stand and transformed into his alt mode. He smashed the pedal. He hit sixty in half a second. He sped away down the hall.

Motormaster roared, “DEAD END.” He bounded into the corridor and flipped into his own alt, tearing after Dead End with such force that his tires screeched and left skids.

Wildrider, Drag Strip, and Breakdown looked at each other, and then peeled after them.

“Slaggit! Breakdown get  _ out of the way,”  _ Drag Strip shouted over the noise of his own cylinders. Breakdown veered up the wall, as did Wildrider, and Drag Strip gassed it — but he was cut off by Motormaster’s massive alt taking up too much of the corridor for him to make a pass.

Dead End’s pump was beating so fast it made his external audials ring more than the sound of Motormaster’s six-cylinder.

How the actual frag did he get into this mess?

He narrowly dodged between two seekers, turned a corner, and flew into a lift so fast he mangled his bonnet and the front of his engine. As he switched to root (cursing all the while), he jammed the  _ close _ button, and then the  _ Airfield.  _ He caught a sliver of Motormaster’s black mass as the doors shut with a disturbingly ordinary  _ ding! _

As the lift moved upwards, there was a  _ wrench!  _ from beneath him.

He switched back to alt and revved his engine as hard as he could, more than he’d ever pushed it in his life. When the doors opened (painfully slowly) he burst forth towards the edge of the landing strip.

He jumped.

* * *

Motormaster slammed his fist into the airfield’s lift door once he stepped out onto the strip and saw no sign of Dead End whatsoever. Coincidentally, he hit the same dent Dead End had made the last time he was up here and the metal cracked. The lift opened shortly after, and the rest of the Stunticons stepped out, looking a mix of frightened and worried.

He immediately growled at them, “Not a  _ word,” _ and then whirled around and put his face in his hands. His reputation was utterly ruined. How was anyone going to respect him ever again, let alone his team? His frame felt like an oxymoron of burning and icy, deathly cold. He dumbly wondered if you could offline from despair or embarrassment alone.

Drag Strip said, “Boss, I’ll get the bridge open.” He dashed down the stairs this time — faster than the lift, of course.

Breakdown said, “Boss, we’ll find him, okay? I’m sure he didn’t mean it…”

Wildrider didn’t say anything.

Motormaster ignored all of them.

Under the layers of humiliation, the rage, the self-loathing that he’d let it all spiral out of control this badly, there was an almost-toxic layer of worry.

Where the frag had Dead End gone? He hadn’t jumped in the ocean — except out of all the Stunticons, he was the most likely to do something crazily suicidal like that — but then, had he left? Just up and gone and left him?  _ Deserted?  _ Megatron would kill him if he ever saw him again. There was no guarantee the Autobots would take him in. But he couldn’t survive out there, without energon, without his stupid poetry and his stupid polish and his stupid regular baths.

He tore one of the lift doors off just as an outlet for all this energy.

Not fast enough, the remaining Stunticons were zooming across the desert at top speed.

“Let’s split up,” Wildrider called, the most rational thing he’d said all day. He stripped off behind a rock formation. Breakdown and Drag Strip did the same, in opposite directions, until Motormaster was revving his engine alone against the orange backdrop of the lowering Sun. It felt chokingly lonely.

He tried desperately to force his thoughts to stay on track, to not wander to more selfish terms.

His team needed him, and he needed his team —  _ all _ of them. They were all interconnected, even if the Decepticons thought they weren’t, even if  _ they _ didn’t think it. Not only a team, but  _ created _ for one another. A cohesive unit was what Lord Megatron made them. Lord Megatron would  _ not _ make a mistake.

He needed him. Even if Lord Megatron hadn’t made them, the idea of Stunticons without Dead End was unthinkable. He made the team stronger. He grounded them, he kept everyone in their place (full-of-himself but with something to back it up unlike Drag Strip), he helped organise, he was a good fighter, he may’ve been a tease to Breakdown and a one-sided rival to Drag Strip and an enabler to Wildrider, but they still liked him and he them.

Right?

Motormaster’s processor grew darker with the sky.

His tanks squirmed uncomfortably as he thought about the ache in his spark. Dead End was a challenge to him — a pet project — a stepping stone on the way to killing Optimus Prime. If he could finally put the smart-aleck in his place, he’d truly have succeeded as a leader and with the perfect team they’d be the most elite Decepticon warriors. 

And, dread as he was to admit it, he found Dead End attractive (his frame, his perfect paint, his snark, his disrespect) — but that was neither here nor there.

There was the rumble of thunder above him, but no crack of lightning. He followed it (a car engine echoing throughout the valley?) and transformed at the last minute to at least  _ attempt _ to maintain the element of surprise.

When he next crested a dune, he saw a familiar Porsche.

He pounced, grabbing Dead End by the shoulders with both hands and lifting him off the ground so he was eye-level.

“Stop!” Dead End yelped as he dangled, kicking his legs and squirming. “Let me  _ go.” _

“No. What are you doin’?” Motormaster’s voice was shakier than he would’ve ever appreciated, but hopefully Dead End didn’t notice.

“Running away. I’m not a Stunticon anymore.”

“You’ll die out here.”

_ “Good.” _

“Dead End, what is this all about.”

“Who even cares?” Dead End shrieked. “Kill me already and get it over with. I don’t care anymore.”

“I —” Oh. Yeah. “I’m not angry anymore. I swear.”

And he truly wasn’t; not as angry as he was afraid of the knowledge that his esteemed image had crumbled in mere moments. He felt defeated. “But I care.”

“You don’t. You don’t, Motormaster. You don’t care about any of us. You only care about yourself and we know it.” Those words struck him like a stake to the heart; an icy dagger piercing through his fuel lines. His face twisted into one of utter dumbfoundedness.

Well, of course Dead End would think that. It was how he’d acted since creation, after all. He suddenly felt very, very stupid. He dropped Dead End, who fell to his knees with a grunt.

Dead End spat, “I know I’m going to die out here, but it’s better than staying there with  _ you.” _

“I don’t want you to die,” Motormaster mumbled.

Dead End had been leaving, but now he turned slowly back to Motormaster.  _ “What?” _

“I don’t want you to die.”

He fixed him with a look of incredulity.

“I — “ Motormaster bit his lip and stared at the dirt beneath his feet. He suddenly shouted, “I don’t, alright! Idiot! No one does!”

“So? The—” Dead End stopped mid-sentence. He’d been flapping a hand in anger, but now it stilled and dropped to his side as his visor widened. “Oh Primus. You like me.”

“H-huh?”

He slapped a hand to his helm in shock. “I thought Drag Strip and everyone was just kidding, trying to rile me up because they hate me and they know I hate you and you hate me —”

“For the sake of the Wastes, I don’t hate you? How long is it gonna take until you get that through your thick helm?”

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

Motormaster flinched back. “I — I’m trying to help obviously —”

“You can’t even confess right. This is amazing.”

“I can’t?” he growled. He reached out and grabbed Dead End. He ducked down, tilted Dead End’s head up, and pressed his lips to his mask.

Dead End’s visor widened in surprise. His arms fell limp to his side, unsure of what they should be doing. Motormaster’s lips were rough; his nose banged awkwardly against Dead End’s lack of one.

Against his better judgement — on Wildrider’s impulse and Drag Strip’s overconfidence and Breakdown’s nervousness — he offlined his optics and pushed back, transferring a spark from his mouth to Motormaster’s.

In the distance, flying back to base, Thundercracker smirked.


	2. to hesitate's a sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looks like everyone's got something wrong with them!

The kiss, if you could even call it that, and a huge part of him that it was all sappy and very un-Dead End (and even un-Motormaster) to do so, seemed to sap all of his energy and by the time Motormaster had pulled away he half-collapsed into his lap.

He gasped out, “Sorry. I think runni… all that driving tired me out.” His fans spun heavily at the very sudden intimate contact. (Wondering  _ how did I get here?  _ was starting to become a worryingly familiar thought.)

“You’re an idiot,” Motormaster huffed, although Dead End could’ve sworn he saw the edges of his mouth twitch in a smirk.

“How exactly can you be the kind of person to kiss someone and then call him an idiot in the same moment?!”

“With ease.” Grin. “Want me to do it again?”

What was happening. Why was  _ Dead End _ the one being  _ courted?  _ He was supposed to be — well, maybe not the aggressive one. He always assumed a future lover to be unable to resist his perfect polish and his philosophical debate winning streak, and he’d shrug them off because he had better things to do, and they’d pine after him, and then they’d ask him out and be at his beck and call.

Wait, that  _ was _ being courted. Oops.

The idea of being swept off his feet still embarrassed him, though.

“No thanks.” He pushed up off of Motormaster and winced when he saw the new dark smears of paint on his coat. “Let’s get back, I suppose.”

The confidence vanished from Motormaster’s face just like that, and was replaced with the narrowed eyes of suspicion. “What, just like that?”

“Don’t you want me to?”

“Come on, you ain’t a bolt without a washer. I thought you hated…” He hesitated, unsure if he should even include himself in this list anymore. “Us. But one kiss and that’s that?”

To be honest, in all the excitement of getting kissed (by someone who  _ liked _ him no less, not just as part of interfacing) that’d slipped his mind. “Oh.”

“What happened between you two?” And then, as if he could rebuild his tough guy act, he sat down into the dust (a cloud rose at the thump) and swiped the back of his cowling in a mockery of casual. “Need to keep the team together ‘n’ all.”

Dead End looked at him. He moved to plop next to him and drew his knees up to his chestplate to let his arms hug them. His arm brushed Motormaster’s, whose fans audibly kicked up in turn.

Dead End stared straight ahead, at the ground. “Everyone noticed you were acting very distant after you confessed what you’d confessed to me.”

“... Oh.”

“Breakdown asked me to speak to you. So I did. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have planned to, to be clear.”

Motormaster didn’t respond.

“However, Breakdown believed you were acting distant because you had asked me out, and I hadn’t given you a yes or no. After our  _ discussion _ I found out he’d told Wildrider and Drag Strip, and… I don’t know. I dislike that he betrayed my trust, and with a misconception no less.”

“He was just tryin’ to help us out, you know,” he said quietly.

“Does that really make it alright?”

“If it was me I woulda blown my top. But you ain't me.” 

"Good thing, too," Dead End snorted. He fixed him with an odd expression: helm slightly dipped, light reflecting off his visor so deeply you couldn't see his opticorbs. Then, he said quietly, "It would be nice if you were like this more often."

He leant his head on Motormaster's arm. 

Motormaster jumped to his feet. His field pulsed fluster. Dead End fell wordlessly onto the ground where he'd been moments before. "I'm gonna radio the others."

Annoying slagger. 

* * *

Breakdown's tires kicked up plumes of dust behind him as he trekked throughout the desert, tailgated by none other than Drag Strip, with Wildrider following behind them. Breakdown had made Drag Strip  _ promise _ not to speed ahead; he wanted to be the first on scene to smooth things over if he could… except Drag Strip was adamant on not having it. 

He whined, "Come on, can't I at least lead the charge? I won't race off. I promise."

"Drag Strip, you have, and are being, a total afthead. What if Dead End sees you and gets mad again? What if he hits you? He could even shoot you! Or worse, if he's dating the boss now."

"... Can I at least drive level?" 

_ "No." _

The first figure to appear on the horizon was, of course, Motormaster's tall shape. Then beside him was Dead End, arms folded. Breakdown transformed fast and ran the last hundred metres. He clapped his hands together. 

"Dead End! Pits, are you okay? I was so worried, there's anything out here, what if some Earth creature got you? You've seen how big they get, or Autobots, or what if Megatron really thought you  _ were _ deserting, I mean I didn't think you would, you're our friend —"

Wildrider and Drag Strip landed behind him in clunks. Dead End held out one palm. 

"I'm going to have to stop you right there. We should come clean. Motormaster?"

Wildrider and Drag Strip both opened their mouths to say something, but Motormaster's glare silenced them instantly. "I ain't go askin' Dead End to be my —  _ boyfriend  _ or nothin', are you glitched? More than usual, I mean, after I knocked the slag out of him? I just said I was sorry. That's it."

Drag Strip pushed on Breakdown to get him out of the way, a curse on his face.  _ "That's  _ what this is all about? You being  _ sorry? _ Breakdown, you're telling me we got involved in your lovey-dovey nonsense for nothing?" 

Breakdown shrank from his accusations. "I — I didn't mean to! Dead End said he hugged him, and when does Motormaster ever hug people? It, it must've been a big thing, unless he was mind controlled by something but he was acting normal up until he went into Dead End's room so I thought he wasn't!"

"You told them we hugged?!" Motormaster bit out as he turned to Dead End. 

"I couldn't quite tell them the truth, could I?" 

"This is so, like, messy," Wildrider commented. 

Wildrider of all people. 

He tilted his head. "Boss, even Narrator's confused and that ain't never a good thing. Are you saying you went off all weirdlike because you told End you're sorry? For choking him and then force-feeding him until he expels or whatever?" 

Dead End put his hands on his hips. "Thank you for reminding me, Rider."

Motormaster was careful to control his own nervous habits, Dead End had come to realise, but stood this close to him, he could feel the uncertainty radiating off him. "So? Is that so weird?" 

"It's so weird! You say sorry to Megsy all the time. Saying sorry's easy. Watch;" Wildrider kowtowed. "Sorry I put scorpions in your berth the other night."

"What?" Motormaster raised a fist. "I ain't find no scorpions or nothin' in there."

"Huh? Maybe they scurried off somewhere."

Drag Strip sat down. He allowed himself to fall onto his back with a  _ paff.  _ He brought his hands up to his face. "Forget that time I fell into Sideswipe's super obvious pit trap. This is the worst. You two are the worst at communicating."

"Am not!"

"You were ignoring us 'cuz you said  _ sorry.  _ Who does that?" 

Motormaster sounded miffed. "Loadsa people do. You do."

"Drag Strip doesn't. He simply doesn't say sorry in the first place, because he's never wrong," Dead End drawled. 

_ "Thank  _ you End.  _ Someone  _ gets me."

"Look —" and it was obvious from his tone Motormaster had been forced into an angry defence. "I gotta wring you four into shape, got it? I can't go looking like a softie. Ever."

Breakdown worried at the cube he'd felt so anxious he'd pulled out of subspace. It was obvious he wanted to say something, but apparently no one cared enough to give him leeway. 

Drag Strip tilted his head. "It's like Lectern said: ever try being nice to us?"

Motormaster calmed a little, and looked at Dead End, who chose not to return his gaze. "Well, I still ain't doing it. Leaders ain't  _ nice. _

Just. Maybe I'll try bein'. Flexible. Or somethin'."

"How can you be flexible with that big ol' box on your head?" Wildrider galloped up to Motormaster to jump onto his shoulders, but he skidded to a halt when he finally got a good look at Dead End under the limited light there was. "Warping skies! What happened to your finish?"

Dead End covered his chest, which was obviously more telling than if he'd done nothing at all. "What? Nothing. What are you talking about."

Drag Strip narrowed his eyes and stepped closer as well. 

"O — alright, we hugged it out. Happy?" 

He merely tutted with a shake of the head. "Endy, Endy, Endy. If you use that excuse every time you say something you don't mean, you're just crying scraplet, y'know?" 

"I'm serious."

Motormaster looked away, suddenly sheepish, and Dead End couldn't help being in awe at his sheer audacity. Was he a Casanovus or a blushing bitlet? Just pick one already! 

Drag Strip glared at him. 

"Drag Strip," Breakdown called.  _ "Please  _ drop it. It's obvious they don't want to talk about —" 

"No no, Downer. When am I ever wrong, let's get real here. Dead End and Motormaster  _ are _ d—" 

_ "Motorend!"  _ Like some kind of small Earth creature, Wildrider scrabbled all the way up Motormaster's frame so he could cling off his shoulders. "I knew Brake-Neck's plan would work."

Motormaster's vents spluttered and he threw him off with one hand. Wildrider knocked down Drag Strip to the ground with the impact. "Brake— me and Dead End — what the frag are you talking 'bout?" 

Wildrider sat up, until Drag Strip got leaked off at the extra pressure and kicked him off. "We were tryin' to get you together 'n' all."

"Huh…" Motormaster squinted.  _ "That's _ why you were tryin' to get me to get all them mods?" 

Dead End raised an eyebrow at Breakdown. He shrugged. "Mods?" 

"To look like Onslaught."

Dead End and Motormaster stared at each other.  _ “Onslaught?  _ I like Motormaster the way he is, thank—" 

He slapped a hand over where his vocaliser was. 

"AH HA." Drag Strip sat up. Accusation was written on his face clear as day. "I KNEW IT."

"What are you talking — there's nothing to —" 

"You  _ are  _ dating!" 

Dead End looked over at Breakdown as if he could glean an answer from the bot currently cowering in the corner of the conversation, but gained nothing. 

"You little piece of waste," Motormaster yelled as he took a step forward. "We ain't datin'."

(But he definitely muttered only half-hidden behind a vent, "Not yet, anyway.")

Drag Strip looked as if he'd just crushed the spark of Optimus Prime. 

* * *

The dead of night. Everyone had retreated to recharge, so there shouldn't have been any noises whatsoever, let alone a knock at his door. Motormaster opened it with genuine surprise once he saw Dead End standing there. 

Dead End simply said, in a quieter voice than even he usually put on, "Hello."

"Hey," Motormaster answered; cautious and equally as quiet. 

Dead End ducked under his arm and stood at his nightshelf. He looked at him expectantly. 

Motormaster moved away from the door so it slid shut far-too-loud for the volume level of the room. "What do you want?" 

Dead End tipped his helm at the berth. 

Motormaster's optics brightened and his voice raised an octave higher, which would've been amusing if it wasn't about to wake half the base up. "You don't — can't — don't be crazy, that's too forward —" 

"Not  _ that,"  _ Dead End hissed. "I simply want to recharge here. 

… With you."

"O… Oh." Well now he felt like a Grade A afthead. Motormaster moved slowly; as if through liquid; as if this was a dream after all; to curl down on the far side of his berth.

Dead End followed after a moment of apparent hesitation. First he sat down carefully (with the kind of care Motormaster assumed he always took when getting onto the berth), and then rolled onto his side too. After checking Motormaster for negative reactions, he scooted up closer until his face was pressed to his chestplate, and their legs weren't intertwined; merely touching. Motormaster waited once more to see if this was a hallucination that was about to vanish into night mist. It didn't. Gingerly, as if he were attempting to touch a thin sheet of cesium, he draped his left arm across Dead End's shoulder. 

The air grew thick with unspoken words. 

Of course Dead End had tried to recharge on his own slab. He'd tossed and turned against the water sloshing against his window — once relaxing but now too loud — consumed by the barest wanton touch of his arm against Motormaster's, his head to his side. He wouldn't say it felt right. Nothing in this world felt right, and for that matter, nothing in this world was any less fleeting or worthwhile. 

It merely felt good. 

The only word he, the poet, could use to describe knowing that unshelled Motormaster — the one not shining a spotlight into Megatron's face — was  _ nice.  _

And Motormaster, too, was having similar issues; similar thoughts of the ghost touches and all the moves he didn't make because he was too scared of rejection, of the lack of  _ approval  _ as Dead End had so succinctly put it. He thought of the energon rushing past his audials as he impulsively grabbed Dead End's face and just… and feeling that precious spark returned in between his lips. He thought of nauseatingly  _ pretty _ things, things  _ unbefitting  _ of him like carefully holding his hand as if it was made of soft gold or going on a walk at the bottom of the sea; just the two of them and the Earth water creatures alone and no weight on them but the planet above them. 

"I can hear your spark thrumming," Dead End muttered so quietly Motormaster thought he'd imagined it. 

He dared to squeeze him with his arm and Dead End nuzzled closer. He manually upped his fans. 

"... Why do you like me? Motormaster?" 

He wasn't sure how to respond. How do you condense a question like that into an answer? Not to mention he'd never been very good with words. 

He leant down to brush his lips against the top of Dead End's head, and was met with a small spark in return, which briefly amazed him — mechs without lips could kiss all over their body, it seemed.

He just said, "You're you."

* * *

Motormaster had his legs crossed, kicking the foot above with the clear mark of impatience on his face. That was never a good sign. An impatient Motormaster was a Motormaster quick to flare up and kick down the person nearest to him.

Wildrider was throwing a gentle tantrum (all of the movement, none of the force), on Lectern’s energon table, forming a new dent with every faux-batter. “I can’t take it. None of us up in here can take it. ‘Wildrider waited impatiently, as did Drag Strip, Breakdown, and Motormaster. The seconds dripped by like ferrum in an hourglass.’ See? That’s what I’m hearing over and over and over. I can’t take it!”

“Wildrider, if you ain’t shut up I’ll  _ make _ you quicklike.”

Drag Strip nudged Breakdown. “Whaddya think they’re talking about in there?”

“Isn’t it obvious?!” Breakdown shook Drag Strip by the shoulders. “He’s talking about how much he hates me and I messed up and it’s all my fault I got him upset and he never should’ve asked me for advice! Or anything! And now he’ll never trust me again and Lectern’s agreeing with him, and saying he’s going to have a  _ stern talking to _ with me but it’ll be worse than that, I know it, I can just hear them now —”

“Dude. Vent.”

“Right. Y-you’re right. Okay.” He did in slow, shuddering fanspins. “Okay. I don’t feel better. I mean. Oh Primus.”

He wailed and buried his face in Drag Strip’s shoulder, who just blankly tried to pat his backstrut in a comforting manner.

Motormaster inclined his head towards them. “You. Calm down. Everything worked out in the end ‘n’ all.”

“But what if it didn’t or it could’ve been better or…” Breakdown’s rambling was muffled into Drag Strip’s plating.

* * *

Dead End felt tired, laid bare, and pliable: exactly how Lectern wanted him, he was sure. He was sat stock-straight and stiff with the discomfort of having to be here, as if Megatron as well as the  _ concern _ of his team were pointing a dagger at his back and just waiting for him to slip up and back out of this. But he could do this, couldn’t he? He was better than this. So he could sit through these painstakingly five minute sessions. He could do it.

Lectern tented his hands. “What would you like to talk about, my friend?” His tone and quirked expression held an unstated statement:  _ Though I already know, of course. _

“First of all, we’re  _ not _ friends.” Dead End was batting right off the whistle.

“Acerbic as last time, I see.” Lectern drummed one set of fingers against his datapad; maybe he was typing, maybe he wasn’t. “You must have a reason for needing to reschedule our appointment yesterday, I’m sure.”

“Yeah. I didn’t  _ want _ to go.”

“And why was that?”

“These meetings are unnecessary. You know that.” Dead End folded his arms as if he’d just made a powerful point.

“Yet, you came last time. In addition, one couldn’t help but notice your teammate had to reschedule as well. Something must have come up, and yet I received no word of Decepticon mission or Autobot attack.”

Slaggit. He was used to dealing with the typical bolts-for-brain-modules rabble that frequented the Decepticon ranks — Lectern was proving to be an observant match. “Yeah, and what came up was  _ Stunticon business.  _ Nothing for you to stick your fingers into.”

“I think you’ll find Stunticon business has been  _ made  _ my business.”

He eyed him down, as if with one well-placed glare he could get the psychiatrist off his case now and forever. He enunciated each of his words carefully; simulating a grit-clogged vocaliser. “I. Got into. An argument. Happy?”

Lectern leant back in his chair, and was that an air of smugness Dead End detected? He  _ sounded _ happy, at least. “Quite. However, you know what my next question is going to be.”

“I am not going to tell you.”

“Very well. Then, I’m sure one of your fellows will be happy to tell me, if you would rather I hear it from their own mouth.”

Starscream could take a masterclass from this sucker — out of sight, Dead End clenched his fist. He could feel himself being herded into the pen, but with no way of climbing out, and he  _ really _ didn’t want Drag Strip or someone twisting the truth and exaggerating  _ certain _ details.

He looked away, unable to meet Lectern’s eyes. “Fine. You’ve won. After your last appointment Motormaster… Apologised. To me.”

“Ah!” Lectern clapped. “It seems I have gotten through to my dear friend.”

He had a funny penchant for calling people he barely knew ‘friends’. “Yes, well, perhaps a little too well. He spent the next few weeks moping, until Breakdown asked me to speak to him. And naturally, being Breakdown, he asked what’d happened, so I said Motormaster hugged me, and —”

“Did he?”

“... That is none of your concern. Breakdown  _ assumed _ Motormaster had… feelings for me, so while I was speaking to Motormaster, he went ahead and told  _ everyone _ what he thought was happening, and Drag Strip attempted to console me, and,” Dead End suddenly realised how formally he’d been speaking in an attempt to bite back the frustration of dealing with this mech. “It ticked me off. That’s all. Understand?”

Lectern made some notes. That barely-amused expression never seemed to leave his faceplates. “I find you very curious, you know, Dead End.”

_“Wow._ _Thank_ you.”

“Yet another contradiction I find — anger despite its futility in the face of all that is going on in the ending universe. Do you know why that is?”

Dead End extended and retracted his inlet teeth with  _ clicks _ that were more felt than heard. No, he didn’t know, and he didn’t care, either. “Does it matter?”

“It does.” Lectern leant forward. He had his elbow joints on his desk; his datapad pushed to one side to accommodate. “It is of my opinion that you are suffering from Major Depressive Disorder.”

_ “Excuse me?” _

“You match the symptoms, yes,” and he looked down a supposed list on his datapad although Dead End had the abrasive feeling he knew them off by heart and was simply humouring him, or perhaps himself. “Low mood, hopelessness, lack of motivation, suicidal ideation, irritability —”

_ “You think I—”  _ and then Dead End caught himself and continued in a  _ noticeably _ controlled voice. “You think I’m irritable?”

Lectern nodded. “I find you can be, yes. When you feel as if you’re the end of your tether.”

Dead End was at the end of his tether, alright.

“And knowing you, you don’t especially want to go on medication.”

“And, what? Lie to myself that the world isn’t the way it is?”

“The way you see it,” Lectern corrected him.”

“No thank you.”

“Very well, but I will still be expecting you at my office for talking therapy, young mech. It is not conducive to your health to continue along this path of mental self-destruction.”

Dead End grumbled all on the way out.

He passed Motormaster in the corridor, and nodded at him slightly, but Motormaster reached out and grabbed his shoulder. Dead End stopped — but he made no effort to turn around. Instead, he stared steely at the door to the waiting room.

Motormaster rumbled slowly, “You… You good?”

“... Just fine.”

“Y’know you can always talk to me if you want, gotcha?”

“I don’t know if I can. I don’t know what the point would be, Motormaster.” And then Dead End wrenched his shoulder back and continued to the waiting room.

He opened the door to find Wildrider with Drag Strip in a headlock while Breakdown waved at them frantically for them to stop. The table had been pushed to one side, leant against the wall and scraping rather unkindly against a wall hanging. 

Facing the door, Breakdown noticed him immediately. “D-Dead End! Make them stop!”

“They can do what they want. It doesn’t matter either way.”

“But — Lectern will get mad we’re wrecking his room, and if Lectern isn’t happy Megatron isn’t happy, and if  _ Megatron _ isn’t happy then  _ Motormaster _ isn’t happy, and if Motormaster isn’t happy then I’m not happy and you’re not…“

He trailed off while Dead End took a seat and picked up a magazine on the latest heavy artillery to trawl through.

“End —  _ ack _ —” Drag Strip punched behind him, into Wildrider’s cheek, but he didn’t let him go. “— after this, Warp’s throwing a party in the commons. We gotta (ghk) go, r-right?”

“Sure thing. It’s been quite a while since I spent some quality time with my friends.” (Whether that was even supposed to be a dig or not, Dead End had no idea anymore. Lectern’s words had thrown his own internal perceptions into turmoil). “Why are you fighting, anyway?”

Drag Strip just rolled his eyes. Wildrider hooked his other arm under Drag Strip’s shoulder joint and pulled him into a suplex in the middle of the room. Breakdown wailed. From there, Wildrider climbed onto Drag Strip’s backside and wrapped his legs around one of his own, pulling it up with his thighs. Gleefully, he yelled, “Tap! Tap!”

Although he had one hand behind him trying to worm its way into loosening Wildrider’s grasp, Drag Strip’s other hand came out and slammed against the floor. “I give I  _ give!” _

Dead End tilted his helm.

Wildrider just kept pulling.

“What —” Drag Strip’s head was shaking from the force of the move. “Quit it, already!”

“Too slow, Strippy.” Wildrider folded Drag Strip’s leg, and then kept going as if he was trying to rearrange Drag Strip into a cube. “Anyway, we’re fightin’ for fragging rights. You want in?”

Drag Strip hit the floor again. His teeth were clenched in pain. “I don’t even wanna frag a seeker!”

“Brake-Neck does.”

“Do you gotta do everything he wants?!”

“He wants what I wants!” 

“Breakdown —  _ do something.” _

Breakdown whined again. He dashed around the room as if there was someone else he could ask for help. “I don’t — I don’t —”

“Just use your engine,” Dead End sighed.

“O. Oh.” Breakdown jumped from the seat, soaring onto the pile and transforming before he hit it. Wildrider and Drag Strip were flattened instantly. Breakdown revved, and then half the power went out.

Sitting slumped over on his seat with his circuits shorted, Dead End sighed externally. But inside, he was feeling an odd sort of feeling. A fondness, because even though his team were a mess and grated on him half the time and each other the other half, at least all four of them had never tried to manipulate him the way Lectern had; never tried to get him to confess his feelings or stop believing in his prophesied doom. They fragged up out of their own stupidity or honest mistakes. Nothing like the mech who seemed to calculate five steps ahead of where Dead End’s visor light could reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't mean for hannibal expy to become actually a villain (lol) it just happened i'm sorry
> 
> WAHOO tender


	3. coming up and up my mind, babe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are they... uhhhh... y'know

Again, Wildrider was kicking his feet in a chair too-tall for him, and if the grunt of forcefield dragged against metal bothered Lectern, he made no effort to show it. Rather, he continued to address the others as if there was no noise whatsoever. To be real honest, that grated on Wildrider more than anything else. To be kicked, punched, locked in an Autobot cell — whatever, that was nothing compared to the utter dirtiness of being ignored.

(It wasn’t quite a dirty feeling. It was one of those ones he got he couldn’t describe, but if he really took the time to think about it, it was like glyphs slipping across a page in an ugly, desperate manner)

He didn’t like it.

“Just say something,” Brake-Neck muttered with his nonexistent hands on Wildrider’s shoulder. “Make something.”

_ I am! _ he thought back.  _ I’m kickin’ my legs ain’t I? _

“Not good enough.”

He shot irritation and boredom down the bond link, just to see what would happen. Breakdown looked at him. He waved back. Breakdown returned to his posturing, he noted. “I don’t know! I just thought, I don’t know, I guess I am s…  _ Sometimes _ I jump to concussions but only with things like this, okay?”

_ Creak! _ Motormaster’s massive form leant back in his seat. “I still dunno where you got such a dumbaft idea into all your helms.”

Finally, he could do something. Wildrider lifted a hand. “I know! I know. You’re always looking at Dead End when you thinks no one can tell, you’re always sittin’ next to Dead End when you can, you’re always nicest to Dead End when he ain’t being a real skin off the cube, which I gotta say ain’t often —”

“And always looking at his aft,” Brake-Neck reminded him.

“— and you’re always staring at his aft.”

“I don’t do any of that stuff!” Motormaster stood up with so much force the chair he was sat in fell over. “You’re thinkin’ crazier than usual.”

Drag Strip had foregone all sense of propriety and was tilting his chair back with his feet up on Lectern’s desk (again, if this bothered him, he didn’t show it), his elbow joints cushioning his head behind him. “You don’t even got to do any of that stuff, although I admit you do, Boss. You just get all  _ fuzzy _ down the bond when you’re next to him. I don’t like it, it’s annoying.”

Motormaster didn’t look at him. “You’re lucky Lectern here ain’t a fan of us fighting, yanno.”

“Didn’t stop you last time.”

“Guys, please.” Breakdown tried to push his hands between them as if he could mediate the situation somehow. Real talk, Breakdown usually made things worse, and Wildrider assumed Dead End tried to make him knew that. “We need to be on our best behaviour, remember? I don’t want Megatron to be mad at us anymore. Bad things happen when he is, he has so much at his disposal and I don’t want to be on the receiving end of any of that stuff.”

Lectern just waved away at him. “Please, please. If it gets out of hand, I will assure you I’ll have something to say about it, but I must say for now I find it quite useful to me to understand the group dynamic as it is.”

His words had a weird natural defusing quality to it, the same way Wildrider’s had the opposite powder-keg quality that made people want to throttle him. It was like if he had a weird mirror version of himself. Except one who was way slower and less fun and more pretty. Wait, that was what a mirror version was anyway, weren’t it? This train of thought was starting to make his processor all scrambled like a freshly garbled stick of RAM so he decided to drop it, narrated that one voice in his head.

Anyway, since Lectern did his defusing words everyone settled down again; Motormaster into his seat, Breakdown into his shell, and Drag Strip into his Strippyness. He continued, “I think we understand the lesson that can be learnt from here.”

“Sure.” Dead End had a funny way of talking. When he was mad, he acted regular, and when he was regular he acted mad. Right now he was acting regular. “Let us all learn to communicate freely. Simple.”

“Precisely. Next time, Dead End, do tell Breakdown the truth. And Motormaster, my friend, understand that things like this are nothing to be ashamed of. There are far greater sins that must be hidden, you must know.”

“Yeah yeah,” Motormaster mumbled, although he wasn’t quite sure what could’ve been worse, Narrator helpfully supplemented. Wildrider was equally as puzzled. Rarely did Narrator ever get as meta as to narrate himself.

“Now, my friend, now is the time to say something to the group. It can be the same as last time — praise — although I do believe it will be equally as useful for you to voice your own thoughts or feelings.”

“Sure thin’.” Pause. Motormaster shifting to lean on his knee joint. “I’m only sayin’ this ‘cuz I’m programmed to and whatever but you lot know I worry about… all of you, yeah?”

Drag Strip snorted and kicked back on the heels of his chair. “Yeah, yeah. We’re all sick of your lovey-dovey act, so feel free to go back to angry-mangry or whatever.”

Wildrider coulda sworn he saw a fuel line under Motormaster’s cowling beat with upset. Motormaster answered, levelly and restrained, “I. Am tryin’. Ain’t you gonna try too?”

“I’m just doing whatever I’m doing, dude.”

Brake-Neck whispered into Wildrider’s audial: “Liar. He’s not happy the spotlight isn’t on him. Keep it off him a little longer.”

Luckily, Motormaster was in the seat next to him (just like last week) so it took no time at all for Wildrider to tip into his lap and climb up so he was straddling his legs. Wildrider beamed at him  _ (fake, put on, acting out).  _ “I ain’t sick of your lovey-dovey act, Boss, it’s real nice, y’hear?”

Narrator mumbled, “Dead End twitched,” like it was out of the corner of his audial although it was more heard than seen.

“Gerroff me.” Heat waved off Motormaster’s faceplates; his vents spun; he put his palms to Wildrider’s shoulders and shoved him backwards until he landed sprawled on the floor.

_ Keep making a scene. Keep attention off Drag Strip. Keep bothering Dead End. _ Wildrider stretched out as if he’d been tied with ribbons. He whined, “But Bo~ss.”

“It’s over, Rider,” Dead End muttered. There was a venom behind it he tasted more than he saw.

“Yes, quite,” Lectern said, and he tilted his head to a shoulder in that wonderful way that fixed Wildrider like he could see his audial-friends in person. “Would anyone else like to say anything this session, or must I choose someone?”

Breakdown wiped his face. “Really, I’m sorry g—”

“I forgive you,” Dead End said quickly.

As if he’d never done anything wrong, and it was all Breakdown’s fault, and didn’t that just mad Wildrider off, asked Brake-Neck? Well, it kind of did! Kinda. To be honest, he didn’t really give a lugnut what anyone got up to — nice or not — but it was never easy to resist that urge.

(Urge to what, exactly? Listen to himself? wondered Wildrider, unsure if he was an attention-seeker, someone with low-self-esteem, or just a troublemaker for the sake of it).

Innocently, Lectern asked, “Breakdown? Do you have anything to say, my friend?”

Wildrider didn’t have to see anything; he could tell from the twitching knee joints alone that Breakdown was trying hard to resist fidgeting and expelling some of that nervous energy elsewhere. Breakdown was turned down into his lap with guilt. He was unable to meet anyone’s face. “No… Except being sorry, of course I am, but I think everyone knows that already, so…”

“Yes, of course they do. Wildrider?”

Wildrider wasn’t startled by being called on (he’d expected it, Narrator had told him to) but he acted it with his head perked up and his audial antenna twitching as he pulled himself into a sitting position. Lectern could barely make him out over the edge of the desk, and yet Lectern fixed him with a raised eyebrow regardless. Wildrider shrugged.

Brake-Neck said, “Tell them you hate them.”

_ I don’t. _ “You guys is my best friends, y’know that, right? I’d do anythin’ for all y’all.”

There was silence.

“Um, are you… joking…?” Breakdown asked. Wildrider shook his head.

“How very sweet,” Lectern said with a tilt of the head. “It is nice to have some positivity in this room, yes?”

“I can be positive. I can keep on doin’ that.” Wildrider touched his own cowling in faux-thought. “This is a great day we’re having ain’t it? Boss, you’re looking real handsome today.”

Motormaster looked at Lectern — unsure how to react. “Uh. Thanks, pal.”

Drag Strip scoffed; if anyone here deserved compliments, it was  _ him. _ So of course, Wildrider had to save him for last. He picked himself up off the floor and pulled Breakdown into a side-hug.

“And you’re so cute, right, Breaky?”

Breakdown tried to fight his way out of it. “Wildrider — stop — everyone’s looking —”

“And you’re the funniest, Dend —”

“Don’t shorten my name like that.”

“Deadedend?”

“Don’t make it longer, either.”

“Come on —”

“I don’t want a hug.”

Wildrider pouted. “Well, it ain’t no wonder Motormaster likes you. You’re both a steel drum of laughs.” Although he actually meant it — he could always rely on Dead End to brighten up his day. Others found him depressing, but he was a funny guy; people ought to lighten up a little.

Dead End turned quickly away but his side of the bond flashed with embarrassment.

Wildrider slapped Drag Strip’s feet in an attempt to get him to sit up straight. It didn’t work. “Strip, you’re a real funny one too.”

Drag Strip glared at him. “What’s that meant to mean? Are you saying I look funny?”

“Naw, you just act it.” And to leak him off, Wildrider leant in for a hug. Drag Strip kicked him away and scooted his chair to the side.

“Oh no, you ain’t getting that ugly paintjob on  _ me.” _

“Drag Strip?” Lectern interrupted as he typed something out on his datapad.

Brake-Neck whispered, “Take it.”

Wildrider reached over and tried to do just that, but Lectern whipped it out of reach quicklike and Wildrider stared at him with amazement. Not just a big processor, but a fast one, too? Drag Strip just tutted and folded his arms.

“Anything you would like to share with us?”

“Where do I even begin?” (Oh dear. It seemed they were in for a long one). “Rider, back up, you’re in my space. You’re still harassing us with your… Riderness, have you even  _ tried _ to make a change?”

Wildrider slapped him. “Sorry, Brake-Neck told me to do that.”

Brake-Neck shook his non-head. “I didn’t! That was all you!”

Breakdown shrank back in his chair. For one glorious moment Drag Strip stared Wildrider down, and he was briefly convinced a fight was going to break out. But then Drag Strip just shook his head and looked to his right, where Motormaster was sitting. “You need to grow a backstrut buddy. You know  _ exactly _ what I mean. You too, Downer. Dead End, you need  _ less _ of a backstrut. There. Happy?”

Lectern just hummed and continued his typing. “Dead End, do you have anything to add?”

Dead End shook his helm. Wildrider reached out and tugged at him over the bond, wanting to know what was up, but Dead End just shrugged him off; what Wildrider  _ could _ make out was a frustration under the usual doom and gloom; if he had to put a word to it, he’d describe it as  _ stormy, _ like flying under the radar at night offroad.

“Very well. Then please, again, Motormaster, give each member of your team some well-deserved praise.”

Motormaster exvented loudly and put his face in his hands. “Lessee.”

“Pick me! Pick me, Boss!” Wildrider had returned to his seat and was now creaking his feet along the floor again. 

“Quit doin’ that. Er, let me think. Right. You weren’t the most annoyin’ thing on four wheels last night, so thanks.”

“Sheesh, a li’l harsh, Motors.” Brake-Neck cursed alongside Wildrider.

“Take it or leave it. Drag Strip, you did a good job on guard duty, or that’s what Soundwave says anyway, so thanks for that. Breakdown, I  _ take _ it you stopped those two from fightin’. Good. Dead End, uh… great tenacity yesterday.”

Dead End shifted in his seat.

* * *

Brake-Neck whispered, “There he is. Just go up and kiss him. It’ll be easy.”

“Hmmmm, that sounds kinda non-consensual to me.”

Drag Strip pushed Wildrider’s shoulder. “Dude, stop talking to yourself. It’ll weird everyone out.”

“Hold on. I’m tryna find the best moves to put on him. What do you think’ll work?”

“Do I  _ look  _ like a guy who’s into jets?”

“Maybe I should just play it safe and be myself.”

“That’s the furthest from safe you could possibly be!”

Brake-Neck muttered something Wildrider couldn’t make out over the din of the party. Skywarp was with Thundercracker by the Coneheads, laughing at some story he was telling and sloshing high-grade all over himself. Thundercracker was sighing and shaking his head, but Narrator noted there was a look of fondness to his plates. Wildrider strolled on up, downed his entire cube, and said, “Feel like a ride, big boy?”

In the background, Drag Strip was about to faceplant.

That was terrible.

Sourly, he sipped his drink. No nice cars at this party, why would there be any? He was resigned to loneliness unless the Autobots finally got that they wouldn’t win, surrendered, and maybe one of the Lamborghini Twins would be down. Heck, that open-wheeler wasn’t bad neither.

Stupid Motormaster. Stupid Dead End. They didn’t know how lucky they had it.

Oh… oh jeez. Why was Motormaster suddenly here, his tall silhouette towering above assorted seekers and an unhappy look on his face. Drag Strip tried to disappear into the crowd, but it wasn’t easy when the only other person here who was bright yellow was Sunstorm.

“Drag Strip. Where’s Wildrider?”

“Talking to Warp. What are you doing here, Boss? Letting your hair loose?”

Motormaster was briefly, visibly disgusted at the thought of such a thing. “Don’t use human words like that, or at least don’t let Lord Megatron catch you doing it or nothin’, he won’t be too happy with it. I’m here to make sure you don’t get in too much trouble.”

“Yeah, you might wanna keep an eye on Rider over there.” Drag Strip gestured to where Wildrider was currently knocking on Skywarp’s canopy for… some reason. “End with you?”

“Uh, no. Why would you…”

Drag Strip’s visor glinted. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Dead End suddenly materialised out of the crowd. “Sorry, Strip. Breakdown was not having any of it. Oh, hello Motormaster.”

“Yeah, um. Hi.”

Breakdown refused to come to any party that wasn’t Stunticons-only, feeling far too nervous and citing ‘what if I make a fool of myself’ ‘what if someone laughs at me’ ‘what if something happens and I spill energon everywhere’.

“I’ll go see what Wildrider’s up to,” Motormaster said quickly and left. Dead End watched his back disappear. Drag Strip elbowed him.

“So when are you and the boss gonna —”

“Going to  _ what,  _ exactly?”

“Whatever you think I was gonna say, you got it right.”

Dead End just sighed and put a straw into his cube.

“‘Cuz if he doesn’t snatch you up, maybe I’ll hafta swoop in.”

He fixed him with A Look. “Are you hitting on me?”

“Sure thing.”

“I’ll pass.”

* * *

The Stunticons returned to their quarters without further incident, other than a missing Wildrider (and that alone seemed to make the room about five times bigger). Everyone had retreated to their individual quarters, except…

Motormaster.

He wore a dent in the floor pacing outside Dead End’s room, cringing while trying to reel in his emotions back from the bond link (no one needed to know he got  _ anxious) _ and mostly succeeding. He didn’t even know what he was doing here — what he was going to say, but he felt like he needed to say  _ something. _

He invented, exvented, and knocked.

_ [Come in.] _ He jumped when he heard that, not expecting a comm back, but the door swished up anyway and he stepped in.

Dead End’s room was fastidious as ever. There was a neat shelf of datapads, and under it another shelf of cleaning supplies and polishes. Dead End himself was laid on his front, gently kicking his legs as he poured over another pad (and he looked so perfect; the light softly bathing off his paint; the casualness of how he was with no one else around; Motormaster was sure for a second his spark was going to stop spinning).

“What do you want,” Dead End said without looking up.

“Can I recharge here?” Motormaster said without thinking.

Dead End paused. He looked over his shoulder to glance at him. “Hm. Only if you don’t snore.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Yes. You do. Are your vents clogged?”

Feeling miffed, Motormaster checked them all by putting a hand to them and feeling the air come out. “I don’t think so.”

“You have never done basic maintenance, have you? Come here.”

He did as he was told; directed to sit on the floor by Dead End, who then retrieved a soft cloth and began wiping him down with it. He took extra care around Motormaster’s dusty vents, until Motormaster was squirming from the gentle stimulation.

“Calm down,” Dead End muttered. “You’re worse than Wildrider. There. You can come up now.”

Motormaster grumbled as he clambered up onto the berth and sat there feeling a little lost. This berth was a little more Dead End-sized; Motormaster couldn’t stretch out without his feet falling off the short side. He snorted, “Pretty small up here. Guess we’re gonna have to cuddle.”

Dead End looked at him, head tilted in the unspoken question of  _ Really? _

“Sorry.” Motormaster laid down and patted his chestplates. “Okay, get over here.”

“Are you bossing  _ me _ around my  _ own _ room?” But Dead End settled up against him anyway, with his back to Motormaster’s front. 

“Whatcha readin’?”

“Cygnus’ poetry collection.”

“What’s it about?”

“Poems.”

“You ain’t gonna read me out one?” Motormaster petted Dead End’s head.

This felt nice. It felt natural, almost. If he wasn’t trying to quell such sappy thoughts, he’d probably be thinking about how well they slotted together, like a nail into a gun. He didn’t want this moment to end.

“Hmm. It’s Tarnian style, not quite your thing. But very well.” And Dead End read out a villanelle:

Ever doth the war rage,   
And furthermore, the lives we lost   
And evermore our people age.

With mere stars our stage,   
And wherever we may find the cost   
Ever doth the war rage.

Once again, we burnt the page,   
And all the planet lives we crossed   
And evermore our people age.

Left in our manmade cage,   
Weighed down more than oss   
Ever doth the war rage.

T’was wrong of those who tried to gauge   
Verily Cybertron must doss   
And evermore our people age.

One should’ve heard that advice sage   
Should’ve seen the time of offs   
Ever doth the war rage,   
And evermore our people age.”

Motormaster’s engine gave a gentle rev, and Dead End couldn’t help but relax into the purring at his back. “Kinda heavy.”

“Cygnus was killed on Cybertron,” Dead End went on to explain. “Battle of Charus Bridge, I believe. What a shame.”

“Slag happens.”

“How very charming of you.”

“Dead End, are we. Y’know.”

“Use your words, Motormaster.”

Motormaster leant down to push his head against Dead End’s. “Come on. Don’t make me say it or nothin’.”

“Say what?” Dead End switched his datapad off and turned around in Motormaster’s grasp, until once again he was facing him. This time, he  _ did _ intertwine their legs together. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”

(Primus. He was so cute. How could one bot be so cute?)

Tentatively, Motormaster sent affection down his EM field. Dead End just snuggled into it, pushing his face closer and closer.

“I — are you — are we —” Motormaster fumbled for the right words to say. “Do you…  _ like _ me?”

“Maybe.” 

Damn, what an infuriating non-answer!

Dead End reached up and put his hands on either side of Motormaster’s cowling, who just looked at him with his brow pinched in confusion.

“Your optic wipers are really long,” he whispered.

“They… are?” Motormaster resisted the urge to reach up and feel for himself. He didn’t want to nudge Dead End away.

“It’s pretty.” Dead End leant closer until his mask was milliunits away from Motormaster’s face.

Motormaster mumbled, “Dead End.” He could feel warm gusts of air from Dead End’s exvents brushing against his plating.

Dead End just pushed forward, but rather than moving in to Motormaster’s lips, he tilted his head to kiss little sparks alongst his chin. He vocalised, “Do you know what Lectern said? He thinks that I have Major Depressive Disorder.”

“What’s… what’s that?”

“The reason why I’m so empty inside. Allegedly.”

Motormaster tried to peer at him, although it was obviously hard; he was too close to see. “I don’t want you to be empty inside.”

“Then maybe,” Dead End continued in measured tones, “You can fill me up.”

Motormaster’s head spun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing from wildrider's perspective was fun :)
> 
> i know that poem sucked leave me alone


End file.
